LOTR: The Rage of the Ents

In a hole in the ground, there hid a hobbit. It was a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, with nothing to sit on or eat. It was the furthest thing from a hobbit-hole, which meant it was the furthest thing from comfort.

Sam clutched the barrow-blade to his chest as another Arborian Horror went shambling past. The grove above echoed with the creaks and groans of wandering willows. They were easy enough to outrun. That was never the problem. But the trees never tired. Never faltered. Hobbits did. So too man, elf, and orc.

Sam drew a deep, shuddering breath and exhaled. His eyelids hung heavy. Exhaustion would claim him soon and with it, sleep. His thoughts drifted back to Rivendell and brighter days, though they didn’t seem so at the time.

How long had it been since the Fellowship was broken? Since the world fell to the Rage of the Ents? What had become of Merry and Pippin?

“Poor Mr. Frodo,” he muttered, half-waking.

It was Gandalf who brought word of the Calamity. The Ents had stormed Isengard, a last march driven by sorrow. It was Saruman who cast the spell, a desperate attempt to turn the tide. The foul magic of the traitor Maia stole their minds, but did nothing to stem the endless rage. Their boundless grief.

A twig snapped. Sam’s sunken eyes shot wide. The grove had gone silent. Everywhere the Ents went, the Rage Rot spread. Not a single branch or root could be trusted. Somewhere above, the shadows shifted.

Laying on his back, Sam brought the blade forward. He’d been a fool to rest here. The Horrors would seep in and tear him limb from limb, in their slow, terrible way. With any luck, he’d be dead before the feast began.

Then came a Voice of Old, long forgotten:

𝗛𝗲𝘆! 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗱𝗼𝗹! 𝗗𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗱𝗼𝗹! 𝗥𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗼! 𝗦𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆, 𝘀𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆, 𝗺𝗮𝗱 𝗼𝗹𝗱 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄𝘀! 𝗧𝗼𝗺’𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝗵𝘂𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗻𝗼𝘄! 𝗗𝗮𝘄𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘆! 𝗛𝗲𝘆! 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗱𝗼𝗹! 𝗖𝗮𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗺𝗲 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴?

A ruddy red face with bright blue eyes and a bristly brown beard popped into view. The cheery man tipped his hat.

𝗛𝗲𝘆! 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗱𝗼! 𝗛𝗶𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗼𝘄𝗻, 𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘆. 𝗨𝗽 𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲, 𝘂𝗽 𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲, 𝘄𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆!

A wave of relief washed over Sam. At last, the long night was at an end. The sun had risen. Tom Bombadill had been found. Ω